


A Spectre In Winterfell

by XCVG



Series: A Spectre In Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Crack Crossover, Crash Landing, Crossover, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Gen, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-10-18 23:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCVG/pseuds/XCVG
Summary: Commander Jane Shepard is not an explorer. She's fought genocidal machines, struck deals with Geth and punched Krogan in the face, but dealing with primitive cultures is something she hasn't had more than a one-hour seminar on. When her shuttle crashes on Westeros, she's forced to wing it. And unfortunately, hiding in the forest and waiting for rescue isn't an option, because the party from Winterfell is already heading out to meet her.Sometimes, things just did not go to plan.





	1. Fires In The North

**Author's Note:**

> I am like a reverse hipster, just getting into GoT now. The timing is awkward but maybe something good will come of it.
> 
> This is a prequel, though not a direct prequel, to After The Fire. I envision this more as a series of short, loosely connected fics than a sprawling epic. Then again, that's what AndrewJTalon's Greyjoy Alla Breve was supposed to be... so we'll see.
> 
> This whole thing is still kind of a crack fic but I think it can work.
> 
> I had more planned for this but decided to split it into two chapters. Expect this to end up as a short but multi-chapter piece instead of a oneshot or twoshot.

For Commander Jane Shepard, uncontrolled atmospheric entry was something of a personal hell.

But hey, at least she had a shuttle around her this time. And some smart cookie had figured out how to move the air line _into _her modified N7 armor, so there was no chance of it getting cut off by shrapnel without also removing her head from her body.

So, it was bad, but not the _worst_ bind she’d been in. Then again, last time she’d _died_.

No time to dwell on that now.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday, Normandy Shuttle Two in the blind, going down on an unexplored world,” the Commander recited, voice steely as her hands flew over the controls. “Coordinates to follow. Repeat, Normandy Shuttle Two in the blind, going down on an unexplored world.”

Like most modern transats and some modern aircraft, the UT-47 Kodiak was a flying brick, reliant entirely on its mass effect core to stay in the air. Its fusion thrusters could slow it down, but not stop it, and it had virtually no aerodynamic lift.

Which meant that if she didn’t get the core started up again, there wouldn’t be enough left of her body to bury. In fact, the procedure was actually to descend to about ten kilometres, then jump out of the shuttle and descend the last leg on a ribbon chute. It was insane, but in theory survivable.

In theory.

“Core failure. Core failure,” the shuttle’s VI chirped unhelpfully.

“Yeah, very astute!” she retorted sarcastically to the inanimate object.

Infuriatingly, all she could do is hold on and wait. The core restart sequence was automated, and while a seasoned pilot might know how to bypass a few steps to save precious seconds, she wasn’t a seasoned pilot. On a good day she could land manually without scraping the hull up. Pulling back on the virtual stick made her feel in control, but made basically no difference- the flight computer was already doing its best to stabilize and slow the craft.

The outside of the shuttle glowed bright as it descended through the atmosphere, the thickening air forming a shock layer that slowed its decent. It shook violently, slamming into the oxygen-nitrogen mix at a much steeper angle than it was designed for. Alarms blared, but the sturdy craft held together and the violent shaking began to subside.

Which was a good thing, and a bad thing. The shuttle had bled off most of its velocity, but was still closing with the ground at hundreds of metres per second. It continued its terrifying descent, the ground getting closer and closer until it filled the virtual windscreen.

“Terrain! Pull up!” the shuttle’s VI warned. “Terrain! Pull up!”

“I _am_ pulling up!” The shuttle was slowing down and levelling off, but as Shepard realized to her horror, not fast enough. Superheated fusion exhaust tore great crevasses into the dirt below as the shuttle plummeted toward the surface. The slope of descent was getting shallower every second, but they were out of seconds and it was about to intercept the ground.

“Brace! Brace!” On computer command, the powered joints in Shepard’s armor locked up and its mass effect cores charged to full power, forming a hard, inertially-compensated shell intended to keep its wearer from turning into a fine paste on impact.

Even with the shuttle’s safety systems, even with her suit, even with her enhancements, the impact was teeth-chatteringly, skull-crushingly, bone-judderingly harsh. She didn’t cry out, but it left her shaken, sore, and gasping for breath.

“Fuck,” she muttered, before breaking out into a laugh. Fuck, she made it. Down on an unexplored planet, in a shuttle that’s probably totaled, but she was alive and breathing!

Shepard reached over and disengaged her restraints, stumbling to her feet and taking a few experimental steps. She was sore and a little bit dizzy, but nothing seemed to be broken. Better and better.

The cabin had a few wisps of smoke drifting around it, only emergency lighting was still working, and one of the equipment lockers had broken open and dumped tools all over the seat across from it, but the interface in the cockpit was still online. She sat back down and brought up a status display.

Her initial impression was correct- the shuttle was totaled. The eezo containment was intact, which was good because that stuff was _nasty_, but most of the important bits that controlled the core were broken. Half the thrusters were still okay, the other half were destroyed. The pressure hull had a big crack in it and wasn’t holding atmosphere. There had been an electrical fire that had burned through the active countermeasures system, but it was out now.

The Commander figured that _maybe_ she could coax an atmospheric hop out of the broken machine. But then again, she wasn’t an engineer either.

She swiped with her arm, dismissing that status screen and bringing up one with information about the world she’d landed on. It was habitable, with an atmosphere, gravity, and length of day very similar to that of Earth. The outside temperature was well below freezing, but that was because she’d landed in the north. The brief automated scans the shuttle was able to run before smashing into the planet showed that it was much more moderate closer to the equator.

Unfortunately, there was no match for this world in the shuttle’s database- or, she suspected, any database. It was smack dab in the middle of uncharted space. There were signs of civilization, but the shuttle hadn’t got a long enough look to even guess at what level of development. The life appeared to be carbon-based, but could be dextro or levo.

Reaching forward, she expanded part of the map around where she’d crash-landed. It was blurry and lacking in detail, but there was a grey structure that looked a little too regular to be natural not far from her position. Sure enough, the VI reported that there was a seventy percent change of it being an artificial structure.

Time to meet the locals.

Shepard was many things- terrorist, hero, diplomat, fighter, problem-solver, problem-creator. But she was an N7 operator first and foremost, and she would be going in both ready for anything and expecting a fight.

As she began to formulate plans, she double-checked the seals on her helmet. Even though this world had a breathable atmosphere, she would stay buttoned up. There could be lethal pathogens or allergens in the air, and until she knew for sure she would be playing it safe.

Hopefully, the locals would be friendly, but she wasn’t going to bet her life on that. She’d observe them first, then maybe make contact. If they looked like they could help, if they were friendly. And if they weren’t… ideally, she’d back off. But if she had to engage, she wouldn’t be pulling any punches. She patted the Bushmaster pistol on her hip, then squeezed around a cargo container that had broken loose and shifted before opening up the shuttle’s weapon locker.

The giant sniper rifle that took up half the space was right out- the Widow could put a hole in a tank, but it also weighed the better part of forty kilos and kicked like a horse. She grabbed a Vindicator battle rifle instead. Reluctantly, she left her Scimitar shotgun behind. In the terrain she landed in, it wouldn’t really be able to do anything the Vindicator couldn’t do better. After a brief moment of consideration, she decided to grab the grenade launcher, too.

Just in case.

Shepard closed the locker, paused, then opened it up and retrieved an asari sword, clipping it to her hip. As a weapon it wasn’t all that practical, but it was a birthday gift from Liara and it felt wrong to leave it there, just in case she didn’t come back. She also strapped a survival pack to her armor before slapping the door release and leaving the shuttle.

Or attempting to. The door began to inch open before grinding to a halt. A four-centimetre-high strip of open space allowed bright light into the cabin.

“Oh come on.” The woman crouched down, gripped the edge of the door, and heaved upward with powered joints and enhanced muscles. Metal creaked against the onslaught, and then something snapped above her and the door slid open.

Well, that was going to make securing the shuttle _interesting_.

Shepard stepped out of the stricken craft, boots crunching on the grass below. It was green, and a quick scan confirmed that it was chlorophyll-based and levo-amino. The grass stretched out to the horizon, interrupted by small bushes and shrubs. Scrubland. Not great, not terrible. It meant she would see any intruder coming from a click away, but it also meant there was no way to conceal the landing site.

She circled the shuttle, alternating between focusing on it and focusing on the horizon. Gesturing with her eyes, she flipped between sensor overlays and zoom views, mentally filing away the relevant bits of information. The manual scan confirmed that there was no eezo leak, and that the shuttle had a few hull breaches and was seriously structurally compromised along the port side. A forest was visible in the distance, along with what might be the tip of an artificial structure in the opposite direction. The forest was green, probably also similar to Earth’s plant life, and the albedo of the structure suggested it was stone or concrete.

If she wanted to meet the locals, that would be her best bet. If she wanted to avoid the locals… well, that probably wasn’t going to happen. Unless they were literally blind and deaf, they would have seen the trail of fire in the sky, and if they had at least a Neolithic understanding of geometry, they’d be able to figure out where she came down.

She pushed the door of the shuttle back open and stepped back inside. It was totally broken, and immediately fell closed again when she let go of it.

There was a small rover packed away among the shuttle’s cargo, and she was almost tempted to dig it out. But it would take time to set up, and she wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. She headed back to the arms locker and retrieved a large, square gun with a rotary magazine and no shoulder stock. It was in fact an adapted industrial tool designed to drive spikes through hard materials. In the military, they used it for driving payloads into the ground, and occasionally for just nailing things together.

She did make sure that it was loaded with sensor units and not anti-personnel mines. That was a mistake you only made once.

On her way out, she spun the drum to select plain spikes and put two through the shuttle door. It probably wouldn’t stop a determined intruder, but it would hopefully slow them down long enough for her to get back to the shuttle and stop them. She wasn’t planning to go far or be gone long. Just enough to scope out the terrain, scan some of the flora, and secure a perimeter. It was a risk, but a calculated one.

There was a chance that whoever lived here was advanced enough that they could just bypass their way in. Or that they were big and strong enough that they could just punch a hole in the door. She was hoping that neither was true, but she knew personally that the galaxy was often _not_ a friendly place.

She was really hoping the locals were more Raloi and less Yahg.

She did another circle around the shuttle, scanning the horizon. She noticed movement at the same time her suit computers did. With an eye gesture she zoomed in. Yep, they were definitely heading in her direction, at a good pace too.

Well, she’d be meeting the locals sooner rather than later.

She flipped to maximum zoom. It was a shaky, blurry image, but good enough for her to recognize what she was seeing. She let out an audible gasp of surprise.

It was a group of men on horses.

Men. On horses.

It was a group of eight people that were unmistakably male humans, mounted on horses just like the ones from Earth. Judging by their weapons and armor, she guessed they were at the medieval level. A few bows were visible, but no guns. Definitely- well, probably, she wasn’t an anthropologist- medieval.

She suppressed the _what the fuck why what is going on_ and focused on what was in front of her- an armed party of unknown intent heading towards her shuttle. She needed to find out what their intentions were, and, if necessary, stop them.

Hopefully, she’d just wandered into the local renaissance faire and hadn’t actually discovered a new civilization of primitive humans. They’d just call for an extraction, and she’s be in some trouble but not so much that she couldn’t talk her way out of it.

Rarely had things ever gone that easy for Jane Shepard. This planet _was_ off the charts, after all.

She sighed and started walking toward them.

* * * * *

There were few things that truly scared Lord Rickard Stark. Battle or the threat of it certainly did not. The birth of his children- well, he’d felt _trepidation_, but not fear. But fire from the sky… that was something strange and unknown. Something from legends and stories, not real. Even the Maester was at a loss for words. The possibilities terrified him, but he dared not show that fear. The Lord of Winterfell was the rock the North rested upon.

Instead, he gathered a dozen guards and his two eldest sons and rode out toward the fallen star, leaving Benjen and the Maester with instructions on what to do if, gods forbid, he did not return.

They were perhaps halfway there when Brandon, his eldest son, spotted the strange man. At least, they assumed it was a man. They were still too far away to make the figure out clearly without a far-eye, and the mottled armor the man was wearing didn’t help matters.

“A warrior?” Brandon theorized.

To their surprise, the strange man turned straight toward them and waved.

Unease was written on the face of his younger son, Ned. “I don’t like this.”

“Nor do I, but we need to know who this stranger is,” Rickard responded.

He gripped the reins and urged his horse forward into a fast canter, his party following behind. Making a snap decision, he signaled his guards, and they split to encircle and surround the mysterious figure.

Their quarry made no move to escape, just stood there watching them- and watching him in particular. The man had a sword on one hip, but kept his right hand by his other hip, near an odd metal box that seemed to be attached to his armor. There were more boxes on his back, and some of them appeared to be glowing. His armor was a strange mottled grey, and his face almost entirely hidden save for brilliant green eyes that peered out from behind glass.

Rickard kept his eyes on the strange warrior as his sons shared an uneasy look.

“Hi,” the warrior said casually, with an unexpectedly _female_ voice. She had an odd accent, he noted. “I’m Commander Jane Shepard, Systems Alliance Navy.”

He gave the warrior a second look. She had broad shoulders or at least pauldrons that made them appear broad, as well as a hard, confident stance and was carrying a sword and wearing armor, all of which had led him to assume initially _she_ was a _he_. But on a closer look, her armor was quite well-fitted, and her feminine curves as clear as day.

“A woman commander?” someone muttered from behind him. “Commander of what?”

A fallen star and a warrior woman carrying metal boxes that glowed. Strange did not even begin to describe it.

“I am Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” he introduced. “You have appeared under most strange circumstances.”

The woman seemed to understand the implicit question. She jerked a thumb- her left thumb, the one closer to her sword, he noticed- toward Winterfell. “Is that castle yours? Because this is going to be a _very_ long and confusing explanation.”

He kept his face hard. “I would prefer if you explained yourself first. It is not every day a woman in strange armor, carrying an odd sword and speaking with a queer accent, appears outside Winterfell.”

She paused for a moment, bringing her left hand to her helmet as if she was attempting to scratch her chin. “Fair enough. The fallen star was my ship. It flies among the stars, except for some reason it stopped flying and crashed on your planet.”

“She’s insane!” Brandon exclaimed from behind him.

Rickard cringed inwardly. His son needed to learn some restraint. “Forgive my son’s rudeness. But he speaks true. How can you possibly expect us to believe such outlandish tales?”

“Maybe you haven’t even conceived of space travel yet, but it is possible and I am proof of that. I’m not insane, just way outside anything you could easily understand.” the woman said ruefully. “Lord Rickard, I’m a warrior, not an explorer. We have people trained to meet primitive cultures, but I’m not one of them. Believe me when I say I’m as out of my element as you are.”

He had to admit, it was almost convincing. Her words made little sense, but she said each of them with conviction.

“How can you fly among the stars?” Ned asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“That’s… a very complicated topic I’m not really qualified to explain,” she evaded before turning back to Rickard. “Lord Rickard, I have no intention to harm you or your people. My arrival was an accident and I wish to leave this world as soon as possible, with as little impact as possible. My intention is to repair my ship if possible, and wait for rescue if not. That’s it. If you can believe _that_, we can work it out from there. You have my word.”

“You shall accompany us to Winterfell,” he finally agreed, though he was reluctant. Though she appeared to be sincere, her story was so strange he struggled to accept them at face value. “But first, we will see your… ship.”

“Fair enough.” She jabbed with a gloved thumb in the opposite direction. “This way.”

* * * * *

“This is it,” the woman announced, stopping in front of a long furrow in the ground that led to a blackened metal object. It was boxy, with curved snout and noticeable step in the middle, and it had some odd protrusions. To their surprise, it was only about the size of two large carriages or a large boat.

“That thing flew? Among the stars?” Brandon asked incredulously.

“You’re expecting something larger and fancier, aren’t you? Where I come from, spaceflight is almost routine,” she explained patiently. “This thing is meant to be cheap and easy to mass-produce. No bells and whistles. And it _is_ a small shuttle, mostly for running a few people or a bit of cargo from one planet to another. Think of it more like a boat than a ship.”

“May we take a closer look, Lady Jane?” Rickard requested, dismounting his horse.

She snorted, then quickly apologized. “Sorry. I’ve been called many things, but never lady. Usually it’s Commander or Shepard. Even just Jane.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not highborn, then?”

“That’s another thing that’s very complicated to answer,” the not-Lady replied carefully. “I don’t know what your definition of highborn is. I think that’s something that we can go over at your castle.”

Before he could respond, she waved them over and started toward the star-boat. “Stay behind me and don’t touch anything.”

“Why? Is it dangerous?” Ned asked, concerned.

“Flying through space involves a lot of things that are, uh, poisonous or flammable or worse,” she told him, visibly struggling to find the right words. “They’re really useful but have to be properly handled. I think all those… things are contained, but I’m not an engineer and it was a pretty hard landing.”

“Do as she says,” Rickard ordered. The unease was starting to creep back. Was this woman truly who she claimed to be, or some witch from Ulthos with other intentions?

“Hey, it’s probably fine,” Jane assured him, apparently having picked up on his unease. She pointed to one of the protrusions jutting out of the back, black and bent. “Engines. These make it fly. Or, they should make it fly. That one’s probably FUBAR- uh, fucked up beyond all repair. Of the things you really shouldn’t touch, that’s one of them. It takes a lot of energy to make it fly and if it’s not contained, it can be very dangerous.”

Rickard squinted at the star-boat’s hull, trying to figure out if it was made out of ordinary steel or something else. He wished he’d brought the maester with him instead of leaving him at Winterfell. He was tempted to touch it, but if the star-boat was truly as dangerous as the woman said…

She continued leading them around, pointing things out as she went. “Big crack in the hull. The structure’s probably compromised. Another engine on the front, buried in the ground. Like I said, it was a hard landing. That’s the door. It’s broken, but I pinned it shut. If you try to pry it open, I will know.”

It was startling to Rickard how smoothly she’d slid in the implicit threat, and how grave it came across. In truth, he was still not sure how to view this woman.

Unfortunately, his son Brandon was not so observant. “But we’ll be at Winterfell.”

“I will know,” she repeated, fixing Brandon with a hard glare. “Like I said, dangerous things inside. You could end up blown up, vaporized, electrocuted, poisoned, or worse.”

There was more to it than that, he understood, but he supposed that if their roles were reversed, he would not be so eager to volunteer everything either. If she were truly stranded, she was at their mercy.

_If_.

He still didn’t like it. Any of it.

“How do you see outside?” Ned asked. “There’s no windows!”

“Cameras,” she answered.

“What?”

“Technology. It, uh, takes an image from outside and projects it inside,” she tried to explain. “There’s a lot of complexity to it, but that’s the idea.”

“Not magic?” he heard Brandon whisper to Ned.

The woman led them away from the star-boat once more, then turned to Rickard, fixing him once again with those piercing green eyes.

“Lord Rickard, I’d appreciate it if you post a guard around my shuttle while I’m at Winterfell. It’s potentially dangerous for multiple reasons. I wouldn’t want a farmer sneaking in and getting trapped inside, or some bandits walking off with parts of it,” Jane requested. “It should be safe enough for your troops as long as you keep them, say, fifty paces back.”

She paused. “I know you have no reason to trust me. I know my story sounds insane to you. I know I’m asking for a lot and offering nothing in return. But I’m trusting you with more than I realize. I have friends that will appreciate what you’ve done. And there are things I can offer you. Not the ability to travel among stars or crush your enemies- they’d have me shot for that- but things that will make life a little better for you and your people.”

“I am not your enemy, Jane Shepard, nor a trader seeking profit,” Rickard assured her. He was mildly offended, but perhaps the woman came from somewhere like the South where everyone acted in their own self interest. He turned to his guards. “Martyn, do as she says. Make sure no one approaches the star-boat. And give her your horse.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright-”

He raised a hand. “I insist. After all, you’ve had a very long journey. My man can afford to walk a few more miles.”

In the brief time he had observed her, Jane Shepard had always come across as agile and well-coordinated. He was genuinely shocked to see her fumbling attempts to mount the horse. First she attempted to pull herself up sideways, nearly bringing the poor creature down on top of her. Her second attempt was more successful, consisting of a jump and a mad scramble at the saddle before almost literally throwing her other leg over. The horse bucked and almost threw her off, but she managed to stay astride. Experimentally, she flicked the reins, and half-dragged dragged the creature into something vaguely resembling a straight line.

To his surprise, the woman whooped excitedly. “Sorry. I’ve been around, Lord Rickard, but this is new to me.”

“You’ve never rode before?” Brandon asked, surprised. He was already back on his mount, as was the rest of the party. It was natural to them. “Do you even have horses where you come from?”

“They exist, but we don’t really use them,” she explained. Awkwardly, she guided the horse toward Rickard. “Your son?”

He nodded. It wasn’t surprising- they both had the look of a Stark. “My eldest, Brandon. He has fire in his veins, but he will be a great Lord of Winterfell some day. The younger one is Ned, my middle son.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” she responded pleasantly, then turned the horse toward Winterfell. “Let’s ride.”

* * * * *

The Starks and their guard kept their distance from Shepard as they rode towards Winterfell, probably because they didn’t want to suffer the consequences of her horrible horsemanship. It was just as well- it gave her time to think.

Although Rickard was formal and professional, the glances from the other men- including his eldest son- did not escape her notice. Half of them were probably wondering why the hell she wasn’t showing her face, and/or what was up with her weird looking armor, weird looking sword, and odd glowing boxes. No doubt they were wondering if she was even human.

The other half were probably mentally undressing her. _That_ was disgusting, but nothing new.

The bigger thing on her mind, though, was why there were humans on an uncharted world lightyears away from the nearest mass relay. She was reasonably convinced they were human. They looked like humans, and a sneaky scan with her omni-tool was 90% certain. The presence of actual horses- a species native to and exclusive to Earth- only reinforced that idea.

Her first thought was an early colony ship that had disappeared, but the fact that they were very much medieval and didn’t seem to know anything else put an axe in that. Even if they had regressed for whatever reason, colonists would have understood the idea space travel.

No, they would have had to have come earlier, somehow. A Prothean experiment, maybe? Or a Reaper one? She shuddered at that thought.

Which raised the question of why the hell were they speaking English? It wasn’t Standard, but it was definitely a mutually intelligible variant of Earth’s lingua franca. A linguist or a good linguistics VI could probably pinpoint exactly where their dialect split off, but she was neither.

Ultimately, she was a soldier, not an explorer. Answering those questions was a job for someone else. She just needed to survive, maybe fix the shuttle, and not make a complete mess of this world.

She had a bad feeling that would be easier said than done. 


	2. Shepherd of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I screwed up by having Ned at Winterfell, but I think it actually worked out as a happy accident. I’m not exactly sure how the timings work out (and mixing book and show canon probably doesn’t help) but I know he was fostering in the Vale with Jon Arryn and Robert at the time. Still, we know he did visit Winterfell at least once. We’re going to have to have a timeskip to end up where I want us to end up, but it’ll actually end up in the right place to divide this from the next installment in this loosely connected series.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a boring one I think, especially if you’re already familiar with the canon. The exposition perios is a challenge for any crossover fic. If you go one way and assume your readers are familiar with both verses, it forces everyone who isn't to go on a desperate wiki walk to figure out what's going on. If you go the other way, it's insanely boring for anyone who's even the least bit familiar with the source material.
> 
> I don’t think I hit a good balance this time, but I think I’m closer than the last time I tried.
> 
> On a somewhat related note, I’m more familiar with Mass Effect canon than GoT/ASoIaF canon. Feel free to point out if I screw up anything. Bear in mind that this is mixed books/show canon.

Commander Shepard had almost figured out how to keep the plodding animal going in a straight line by the time they arrived at Winterfell. She whistled, impressed, as they passed less-than-gracefully through its large iron-reinforced wooden gates.

It wasn’t bright and pointy castle out of a fairy tale vid. Nor was it all that large, paling in comparison to the spires of Nos Astra or New York. But it had a certain _presence_ to it, a stately resilience. A fortress, a citadel of humanity against what stood outside. It was strong and sturdy and- barring any radical intervention- would probably stand another thousand years.

They headed immediately to the stables. Lord Rickard dismounted first and offered his hand to help her down. Being polite, she took it, and they nearly went sprawling when she hopped off the horse.

“My apologies, Lady Jane,” he excused.

“No, that was my bad,” she replied, dismissing his concern with a wave. With her battle rattle- armor and equipment- she was probably a good hundred kilos heavier than he’d expected. She tried and failed to recall offhand what a knight would have weighed.

A boy, probably no older than thirteen, led her horse away. Brandon said something to his father she didn’t quite catch, then headed off with his brother. That left her with Lord Rickard, who she followed out toward the castle’s courtyard.

“It’s not fair!” a girl’s voice shrieked, probably loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear.

Coming around the corner of the stables, they were given a clear view of the courtyard. Several metres away, a teenaged girl in a mud-stained dress stood, fists balled in anger. An older woman- she looked old, but on a world like this might only be in her forties- stood in front of her, a frustrated look on her face. Rickard cast a furtive glance in their direction.

“-could have been dangerous, and besides, you’re behind on your sewing lessons,” the old woman chastised. She softened her voice and soothed, “Lyanna, if you cannot tame your impulses and present yourself as a proper lady…”

Shepard didn’t catch the last bit, but whatever it was, it was the wrong thing to say. The girl became even more angry, shouting, “They can go to the seven hells! I don’t care about being a _proper lady_!” With that she stomped off out of view.

She couldn’t help but cringe at the interaction, but nonetheless filed away the information for future use. The girl was named Lyanna and these people had a religion with seven hells.

“I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. The blood of the wolves runs strong within her. Soon, though, she shall be a proper Lady of the North,” Lord Rickard excused, clearly trying to cover his embarrassment.

“No need to apologize, Lord Rickard. She’s probably just on edge, what with the fire in the sky and all,” she dismissed casually. Add _traditional gender roles_ to the list. She made a show of looking around. She didn’t really know the first thing about castles, so simply said, “Nice place.”

“This is Winterfell, the ancestral seat of the Starks,” Rickard explained. “It was founded by my ancestor Bran The Builder, over eight thousand years ago. Throughout the centuries, the Lords of Winterfell have expanded upon it.”

Unless they had a very different definition of years, he was straight-up lying, or there was some weird timey-wimey stuff going on, that pretty much shut down the “lost colonists” theory. These people had to have been here much earlier.

It was somewhat telling that even so, this barely bumped the proverbial needle on her scale of Weird Shit. Not so long ago, it would have freaked her out. Now? After killing a sentient starship from the galactic void, coming back from the dead, and blowing up a station at the center of the galaxy, nothing really crossed that event horizon anymore.

They continued into the keep, where a pair of guardsmen threw open the doors to admit them to the great hall. She assumed that was what it was; it was certainly a room that befit the title. There were two long tables made of dark wood, with a third shorter one arranged perpendicular on a raised platform on the far end of the room. The walls were grey stone, like the rest of the castle, with large windows letting in natural light. Combined with a high ceiling, it gave the room an open, airy feel, though it was still darker than she was used to.

Rickard lagged slightly behind, pausing to say something to one of the servants before leading her toward the raised table. He took the seat in the center and waved her into the one to his right.

The serving girl hurried off, returning a minute later with what looked like bread and salt on a tray. It wasn’t much of a meal, and she suspected it was more symbolic than anything.

Meaning refusing it was probably a bad idea. At best, it would be considered a minor faux pas. At worst, they’d try to burn her at the stake for witchcraft or something.

Still, “never eat the local cuisine” was one of the first lessons they’d taught at the Academy, and for good reason.

She ran through the possibilities. If the bread was dextro, she might throw up, but it wouldn’t kill her. Live yeast or bacterial contamination could make her sick, but she had some heavy-duty antipathogens in her kit and she was pretty sure Cerberus had made some upgrades to her immune system. If the “salt” was actually a hallucinogen, well…

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Reluctantly, she removed her helmet, exposing herself to whatever pathogens were airborne on this world, as well as a strange variety of strong scents, some more pleasant than others. She could recognize food for the kitchen, as well as a musky scent and an acrid stench that was probably animal waste.

Lord Rickard reacted with mild surprise.

She smirked thinly as she ran a gloved hand through her matted hair. “I’m as human as you are, Lord Rickard.”

“Of that I had no doubt,” he stated. There was something else, but she didn’t push it. Instead, he picked up the bread and sprinkled a pinch of salt on it. “You’re unfamiliar with this custom.”

There was no point in hiding it. “That’s correct.”

“Guest right is an ancient and sacred law,” Rickard explained. “When a guest, be they smallfolk or highborn, take food and drink at a host’s table under their roof, neither may harm each other until they leave. To do so would be to break a sacred covenant with the old gods and the new and invoke their wrath.”

She knew little of their gods and wasn’t of their faith, but got the impression that the man across from her did, and did not take this lightly. If she recalled correctly, some cultures from her homeworld had similar customs, and the quarians had specific laws invoked when boarding a ship.

His roof, his bread, his rules.

“I understand.” She took the bread and bit in.

* * *

Maester Walys was not exactly sure why he had been summoned to the solar. Perhaps it was regarding the fallen star which Lord Stark had ridden out to investigate. But perhaps it was something more mundane, and the lord only needed a message sent out by raven or advice on some other mundane- though not unimportant- matter.

Ultimately, Walys answered to the Citadel at Oldtown, but he was in Lord Stark’s service, and answered the summons as he always had. The heavy chain around his neck, signifying his expertise in various subjects, clinked as he ascended the steps.

He immediately understood it had something to do with the strange woman standing beside the lord. No… strange was too mild a word. Everything about the woman was incongruous. She wore armor and a sword, which was odd but she would hardly be the first. However, both her armor and sword were of a style he had never sighted before and made from materials he could not identify on sight. She also carried several boxy objects on her body, some which appeared to be glowing, as if they contained fire inside.

She had red-brown hair, almost the right shade to be taken for a Tully, but cut short like a boy. Her eyes were green, with a spark to them he saw in few. Her face had features he could not place, along with a scar running down one side. Perhaps the only thing approaching average was her height. She stood perhaps a head shorter than Lord Stark.

“Your falling star. It was a ship that flies among the stars, only it had wrecked on our world,” Lord Stark explained. “She was the only one aboard. A soldier, traveling from one place to another, not intending to visit our world at all.”

_Or so she claims_. The words were left unspoken, but implied all the same. It was a truly absurd claim.

“Maester?” the strange woman asked, an eyebrow raised. “Sorry, I’m not from around here. Commander Jane Shepard, Systems Alliance Navy.”

He couldn’t place the accent. It certainly wasn’t of Westeros. He’d conversed with men from six of the nine Free Cities, as well as Meereen and Qarth, and she sounded nothing like them. Still, that left many other peoples from Essos. There were others more learned than him on matters of language.

How she introduced herself was even more odd. A woman commander, and of what? He had never heard of the Systems Alliance Navy, nor could he recall ever

The name, though, was almost of the Common Tongue. _Jeyne the Shepherd_. An odd name, though, especially as the name of her house. If it were a house at all, and not a title or simply part of her given name.

It was all most peculiar.

“Maester Walys? You still with us?” the woman asked. She had been speaking briefly to Lord Stark.

“I was pondering your name. Jane Shepard,” Walys answered. “Almost a name that would fit in the Common Tongue.”

“It would seem so, yes. We speak more or less the same language,” she agreed with a nod.

Skeptically, he pointed out, “Yet you claim to be from another world.”

“I might not be the first visitor to your world from mine,” the woman suggested. “If I made the journey, others could have. Maybe they brought my language to your people, or vice versa.” She shrugged. “I’m just spitballing, though. Like Lord Rickard said, I’m a soldier, not an explorer, and I didn’t mean to land here.”

“It is possible,” Walys admitted diplomatically. He had his own doubts about the idea, but needed time to ponder it. “I have never heard such a tale, but if it were long enough ago… well, know less about our own history than we care to admit. People forget, records are lost, evidence is buried.”

“That’s a problem everyone in the galaxy has,” the woman agreed. “We have entire professions dedicated to uncovering the past. One of my friends is an archaeologist, actually. She digs up ruins trying to learn about ancient civilizations. Or, used to, anyway. She’s… in a different field now.”

“The galaxy?” Lord Stark asked from behind them, briefly startling the Maester. The woman seemed unperturbed, instead tapping the fingers of her right hand against her left bracer. To their surprise, it lit up, casting a bright blue glow across the room. She continued to tap, then waved her arm and… something appeared above them.

It was a model of the planets and other celestial spheres, perhaps the size of his table. But it was suspended midair, and when he reached out to touch it his hand passed straight through. It was if it was made of light itself. Feeling a dizzy spell coming on, he gripped the edge of the table tightly to hold himself up.

“By what strange sorcery…”

She quickly corrected, “Not magic, just technology.”

“Carry on,” Lord Stark managed, casting a wary eye toward the display.

“This is you. This land and all the lands you know of. This your moon,” the woman explained, pointing out two glowing spheres with a gloved finger. “Does your world have a name?”

“Planetos, by those who speak of it as a celestial sphere,” Walys answered shakily.

“Very original.” She grabbed air between her fingers and pinched it, and the spheres shrunk, with more appearing before them. “This is your star. Your world, and any others in this system, orbit around it. Following me?”

Walys pondered that for a moment. Maester Nicol had believed that their world revolved around the sun, but the same man had also argued that their seasons were once regular. In truth his order had yet to conclusively determine the truth of the matter, and the less learned all seemed to have different but equally uninformed opinions.

“Are we really moving that fast?” his lord asked. There was a bit of wonderment beneath the bemusement in his voice.

“No, this is sped up by a lot. Each day is one rotation, each year is one orbit. The planet tilts and the orbit isn’t a perfect circle, so you get seasons,” she explained. “I don’t have solid data on your world, so this is a best guess. Think order-of-magnitude precision.”

“Please, do continue.”

She pinched again, and the spheres disappeared. Instead, a spiral cloud with thousands of glowing points and a bright centre. “This is the galaxy. My people call it the Milky Way, others have different names for it. There are billions of stars, and many of them have planets orbiting them. The distances are so vast and the numbers so huge that this thing on my wrist can’t even hope to display them properly.”

“Palaven. Thessia. Sur’Kesh. Rannoch. Tuchanka. Homeworlds of some of the peoples who inhabit the galaxy- the ones we know.” She pointed each of them out with a finger before dwelling on one corner of the galaxy. “And my own: Earth.”

He was surprised by the rather plain name. Given the woman’s incredible story, he had expected something far more inspired than “the stuff beneath our feet”.

Perhaps that was the best argument as to the veracity of her tale. If it was a fabrication, surely she would have come up with a better name.

Jane Shepard poked the air and spread her fingers, and the galaxy dissipated, once again replaced by a facsimile of planets around a star. There were eight of them, some large and some small, and the star in the center appeared similar to their own sun.

“This is the Sol system.” She poked the third planet and spread her fingers, expanding it to the size of a small table. “And this is Earth. The homeworld of humanity… or, at least, what we had assumed was the homeworld of humanity.” 

It looked very much like the woman’s image of Planetos, a blue and green orb swathed in white. Clouds, probably. They certainly looked different from above. Unlike their world, it was brightly lit, with white-yellow lines tracing across its surface.

“What are those lines?” Lord Stark asked, taking a pace forward to get a better view.

“Lights from cities,” she answered. “Earth is home to billions of people. We’ve been in space for generations but the majority of humans still live on Earth.” She paused and pursed her lips. “At least, that was what we assumed until now.”

He repeated incredulously, “Billions.”

“Our population exploded a few centuries ago. Just judging by what I’ve seen so far, we were where you are maybe six, seven hundred years ago,” she postulated. “Unless you have dragons or elves or magic. Then maybe not so much.”

The maester exchanged a glance with Lord Stark. Dragons had been gone for over a century, and though many claimed to possess magic, the glass candles remained unlit. It seemed odd to him that she would mention those things specifically.

Though he had no idea what _elves_ were.

“I’ve shown you my world,” Jane Shepard said, making the floating map disappear with a wave of her hand. No doubt she caught the glance, but she did not mention it. “I think it’s fair that you show me yours. I’d like to know at least a little about where I landed.”

He looked to Lord Stark, who jerkily nodded. For the years he had known Lord Stark, he had never seen him in anything resembling shock, yet today his ever stoic façade seemed to fall. The Maester couldn’t blame him; the tale was the strangest he had ever heard yet he almost believed it was true.

“There is much to go over,” he stated, forcing himself back to the topic at hand. “Much of our history has been lost, certainly, but much remains. Perhaps it is tiny in comparison to your galaxy, but one could spend lifetimes exploring even the known world.”

She nodded agreement. “I’m not an academic, Maester Walys. Just give me enough to get by on your world. How people live, who rules what, who’s a friend and who’ll stab me in the back.”

“Very well.” He paused, taking a moment to get his thoughts in order. And then he explained.

He began with the First Men and the arrival of the Andals, then the Rhoynar, so long ago. He didn’t spend long on that, instead moving quickly on to Aegon’s Conquest and the formation of the Seven Kingdoms as they stood today. He mentioned the various rebellions and the wars only in passing.

Lord Stark politely excused himself a few minutes into their conversation. The strange woman did not seem to notice, focused as she was on his words.

As he explained the current state of affairs in the Seven Kingdoms, he treaded carefully. He did not mention the many sobriquets of King Aerys II Targaryen. He spoke of each of the regions and their ruling houses matter-of-factly. House Stark ruled the snowy North. House Greyjoy the rough Iron Islands. House Tully the broad Riverlands. House Arryn the mountainous Vale. House Lannister the wealthy Westerlands, House Tyrell the fertile Reach, House Baratheon the aptly-named Stormlands. Finally, House Martell ruled the warm region of Dorne. All had somewhat different customs which were of course no better nor worse than any other. 

Jane Shepard asked him about the rest of the world, and so he indulged her. He spoke of Essos, which stretched from the Shivering Sea to the Summer Sea, from across the Narrow Sea to somewhere far to the east. He spoke of the realms- so to speak- of the Free Cities, the slaver ports of Slaver’s Bay- that drew a barely hidden look of revulsion- of Qarth and the Shadow Lands and the Dothraki sea. He admitted that they knew precious little about Sothyros or Ulthos.

All along, the woman nodded along, asking the occasional question. She was a quick study, which did not surprise him. She also seemed to enjoy guessing at what he would say next. Sometimes her guesses were eerily accurate, and sometimes they were farcically inane.

When they were done, she stood, thanked him, firmly shook his hand, and left.

* * *

Shepard left Lord Rickard’s solar with her head swimming in thoughts. She was dealing with a medieval level civilization, seemingly descended from Terrans but separated by thousands of years. Either that or it was some kind of con… but to what end? Crucially, what her next step would be very different if that were the case.

She didn’t have a lot of time to ponder, though, for there was a skinny, very nervous looking young man waiting for her in the corridor.

The commander couldn’t help but ask, “Have you been waiting there the whole time?”

The man- a boy, really- gulped. He managed, in a wavering voice, “Y-yes, milady, I was waiting for… um…”

“Stand easy,” she ordered, out of habit as much as anything. “What’s your name, kid?”

She recognized the look he gave her, a mix of respect, fear, awe… and confusion. Well, other than the confusion, he looked just like a green SM3C fresh out of Basic, though he was very young even for that.

He managed a more coherent response. “Jarrad, milady.”

“Alright, Jarrad, first, take a deep breath and relax. Then tell me what’s going on.”

The boy blinked, attempted to straighten himself, and declared, “Lord Stark requests that you join him in a feast tonight and honor him with your presence at his table.”

“Of course I’ll attend,” she answered. She had no idea what the local time was. She was still on Galactic Standard Time, and on the Normandy it would be… mid-morning. Probably. “How long until it starts?”

“The feast shall begin, um, shortly,” Jarred answered unsurely. “Milady will have a chance to change and bathe if it please milady.”

“I’d love to, but I left just about everything in the shuttle.” She smiled ruefully.

“If- if it please milady,” came the noncommittal reply.

She figured getting him to drop the “milady” would be a bridge too far, even if it irritated the shit out of her.

“Lead the way, Jared.”

They headed back toward the great hall. The smell of food was much more pronounced now. It didn’t match anything she knew, exactly, but it was vaguely Terran and surprisingly appetizing. She decided right then and there that, fuck it, she was indulging.

It might end up with her puking her guts out, but it would at least be a change from tube rats. More importantly, she needed to develop a rapport with and gather information from her hosts. And the dinner table was a great place to do that.

She clapped her hands together as they entered the great hall, now bustling with activity. “Alright. Let’s party.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had some endnotes organized nicely with references inline, but those kind of got broken when I put this up. So a few remarks in no particular order:
> 
> \- I'm aware that timescales can get weird in a relativistic universe, but Mass Effect is a (mostly) soft sci-fi verse that kind of avoids talking about the whole relativity thing.  
\- Earth's orbit isn't elliptical enough for it to really affect our seasons, but that's not true for all planets and Shepard hasn't ruled it out for Planetos.  
\- SM3C is Serviceman 3rd Class, the lowest rank in the Alliance military. I'm not sure if that abbreviation is canon or if I've subconsciously lifted it from another fic.  
\- "Tube rats" are rations packed in tubes, not some kind of alien rodent.


	3. Storytime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve wanted to do a log-type chapter for a long time now. Let me know if you liked it, or if you would have preferred something more conventional.
> 
> I’m not totally happy with the note I ended on, but I’m hoping to follow up with the next installment (tentatively titled Playing At War) pretty soon (say, within the next few weeks).

**Surface Day 1**

Well, that was fun.

Long story short, I’ve landed on a planet full of medieval humans and (more or less) befriended one of the local warlords. Yes, humans, and as far as I can tell, not lost colonists, either. I’ve got a few theories, but ultimately that’s for someone else to figure out. I’ve made some snap decisions that will probably get torn apart by contact experts- I’ll tag the recordings for someone’s entertainment- but at least we’re not trying to kill each other yet.

Come to think of it, getting on that shuttle was an impulsive decision to begin with. I’d like it known for the record that none of the Normandy crew played a part in my little escapade. I’d also like it to be known for the record that Admiral Anderson’s message was a plea to cooperate and not do something rash… like I just did. Finally, I’d like it to be known that I _know_ my reinstatement was a ploy to make arresting me easier.

Nice try, guys.

I stole a shuttle and headed off on an indirect course to the Terminus _alone_, because the crew of the Normandy are good people- regardless of their current or former affiliations- and I don’t want to see them take the fall for my actions. Wiping out Bahak was my decision and mine alone. At the same time, I’m not ready to give up the fight. Hang me when the war is over, not a fucking moment before.

Depending on who shows up to pick me up, this may be all for naught. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I could use a cold shower, but that probably isn’t happening any time soon. I was offered a bath earlier, which I didn’t take. I’m assuming that meant someone would bring water in buckets, because there’s a big brass tub in this room but nothing resembling a faucet. I declined because I didn’t bring anything nice to wear anyway, and I was not and am not eager to try out the local fashion. Judging by what I’ve seen they’d probably put me in a fucking skirt.

I actually did bring my dress uniform with me, but it’s in the shuttle, a few kilometres away from the castle I’m in. Speaking of which, I will give Lord Rickard credit, nobody has approached within a hundred metres. Either that or they were able to somehow disable the proximity sensors. Which I seriously doubt anyone around here knows how to do, unless the whole castles and princesses thing is just an act.

And I’ve considered that possibility, but I don’t think it’s likely. I can think of a few _hows_ but I can’t think of a good _why_. There’s no good reason to fake it, at least not to fake it to _me_. I’ve seen the vids where there’s an advanced ruler and primitive subjects, but Rickard seems to be living just like everyone else. I rechecked the sensor data, and there isn’t anything that stands out as anomalous.

So they threw a feast in my honor, which I went to _severely_ underdressed. A few people _did _comment, some politely and some not so much. I made some excuses about leaving my nice clothes in the skyboat and/or that where I come from, clothes are different. A lot of them were curious (or shocked) about a woman wearing armor, and some of them were curious about the N7 insignia on my chest.

I gave a few different answers for that one. Polite for those who were polite, terrifying for those that deserved it.

I think who I was and where I came from was a bigger deal than misogynistic medieval values, even if it was a subject a lot of people would prefer to dance around. Some people didn’t want to approach me at all. One or two brave souls asked me straight-up, and I gave them an honest answer. I’m from Earth (not strictly true but close enough), an advanced planet of humans, and I accidentally crashed my spaceship here.

Notably, once I was seated beside Rickard, people got a _lot_ more polite. I still caught a few murmurs here and there when they thought I couldn’t hear them, but it was clear that nobody was stupid enough to take a shot at their lord’s honored guest within his earshot. In other words, they may not like me, but they’ll have to put up with me by association. Getting on Rickard’s good side and staying there is probably a good play if I’m going to be here for any length of time.

The food was… different. A lot of it looked familiar but at the same time wasn’t quite what I’m used to. Lots of meats, some starches, not enough vegetables. Plenty of rich sauces but not a lot of variety in spices. The thing that really got me was the huge portions that just kept coming- even biotics would probably refuse most of the courses. Of course, this is an era before proper sanitation or refrigeration, so I’m probably going to be spending some time bent over a toilet- or, given the lack of indoor plumbing, with my head out a window.

The local liquor hits like ryncol. I think it’s stronger than Terran booze, but I can’t prove that without analyzing a sample. It also tastes like shit, so I have and will continue to hold off on drinking more than I need to appear polite.

The old saying, _in vino veritas_ seems to apply here, too. Once the booze was flowing, I got to hear quite a few people blurt out shit they probably shouldn’t have blurted out, trying to get the attention of the lady from the stars. For good or for ill.

One thing that kept coming up is the status of my birth. I understand why that’s important, but I don’t like it.

I’ve ducked the question so far, but I think I’ll tell them I’m highborn. It’s not a complete fabrication- there’s a tenuous connection to Carl XIX Gustaf of Sweden, Denmark, and Japan through a Montreal hooker. I’ll work up the legend once I’m done with this.

Creating a noble house may not be the most elaborate thing I’ve done for a cover, but it’s certainly the most ostentatious. It’s probably a felony- like that matters at this point- but it’ll grant me certain rights and privileges that I wouldn’t get if I admitted to being a peasant.

And probably save a few folks some face, which is a big deal here. It probably wouldn’t be fun to find out you’d thrown a grand feast in the honour of a moisture farmer when you’re the high and mighty Lord of Winterfall.

Let’s get one thing clear- I can work with this, but I _don’t_ like it here. I’m not sure if this world is peasants-scrabbling-in-the-mud like the vids, but on top of the general primitiveness, the whole sociopolitical setup just doesn’t sit right with my 22nd-century sensibilities. I’m not a historian, but I’m not so clueless that I think knights exist to rescue princesses from dragons. That being said, I’m not here to judge, much less kick over the apple cart. Just to survive until I can get off this rock, then hand it over to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

Speaking of dragons, the king of the realm, Aerys II Targaryen. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm. Prince of Dragonstone.

Targaryen. That name isn’t vaguely English like everyone else’s because it’s from a different language. It’s Valyrian. I don’t know if that’s a language we know about and I don’t have enough information or the right VI to find out.

Valyria doesn’t exist anymore, but before it exploded- I need to find out if that’s literal or figurative- House Targaryen moved to Dragonstone, an island off the coast of Westeros. About a century after that, Aegon I Targaryen took their dragons and conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon’s Conquest is considered important enough that all dates are now counted from it- we’re now in the year 280 AC, or After Conquest.

Yes, this planet has fucking dragons! Well, maybe. I’m pretty sure the dragons they were referring to were creatures and not machines judging by the way they talk about them, but that doesn’t mean they’re anything like the fire-breathing beasts of legend. It’s largely an academic question, too, because dragons are believed to be extinct.

And alas, the king is batshit fucking crazy. His hobbies include setting people on fire and forgoing personal hygiene- he’s considered disgusting _by the standards of this planet_. Fingernails the length of my hand, scabs everywhere, that kind of shit. He’s the kind of guy who’d end up either taking potshots at the President of the UNAS or creating some of the most iconic music of the century.

When nobody is listening, they call him the Mad King. I’m not a shrink either, but I can’t discount the possibility that he’s mentally insane. Between the incest (it’s traditional for Targaryens, and possibly Valyrians in general, to _wed brother to sister_, I am dead fucking serious) and fourteenth-century healthcare, it wouldn’t be too surprising.

Where was I? Right. The lady who came down in a falling star. The locals are taking it about as well as could be expected, meaning that most of them don’t believe my story at all and the few that do think I’m some kind of witch. It probably would have been better to say I was from some far away land on this world, but it’s safe to say that ship has sailed. That being said, I think I was able to get through to Lord Rickard.

Or, more correctly, Lord Stark.

It turns out I’ve been committing a bit of a cultural faux pas. I’ve been calling Rickard “Lord Rickard” ever since I learned his name and title, but apparently that’s not correct. As he is the current Lord of Winterfell, the proper address is “Lord Stark”.

I’m not an anthropologist- that’s more Liara’s domain- but we actually did go over this in N school. It’s this kind of thing that wouldn’t even occur to most people, but would _immediately_ peg you as an outsider if you fucked it up. LT Singh would have my ass. Mistakes like this have literally gotten people killed.

Not that I could pass for anything but a foreigner. By some miracle, these people speak English. It’s not Standard, not the dialect or the accent, but it’s close enough to be mutually intelligible. Meaning they’d have to have left Earth in the past thousand years or so. Which doesn’t mesh with what I’ve heard. It’s not an unsolvable problem, but I’m not a linguist and it’s surface day 1. I’m noting this down as something for the eggheads to go over later.

Lord Rickard Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I think stern-but-fair and dour-but-softhearted pretty much describe Rickard to a T. He’s still a medieval lord in role and in mindset, but he seems to at least give _some_ fucks about his subjects.

I didn’t see a Lady Stark and I didn’t ask. I’ve finally been able to piece together what I know about Rickard’s kids, though. From oldest to youngest: Brandon, Eddard- or Ned, Lyanna, and Benjen. They’re an interesting crew.

Brandon is the current heir to Winterfell. As I understand it, this is automatic because he’s the oldest son. I never got an exact age- maybe late teens or early twenties. I heard him called “the wild wolf” once, presumably in reference to the Stark sigil and his… boisterous behavior. He bragged about his swordsmanship, and Rickard mentioned his excellent horsemanship. I have no idea if this is exaggerated or not, and it’s not something I’d be able to judge even if it was demonstrated.

He’s engaged (or betrothed) to Catelyn Tully, the daughter of Lord Hoster Tully, ruler of the Riverlands. As I understand it, this is a political marriage, though Brandon does speak fondly of Catelyn and claims she does of him as well.

It still rubs me the wrong way.

Eddard- or Ned- Stark is Rickard’s middle son. As I’d already seen, he’s very different from his brother, much more reserved despite being at least a year or two younger. Eighteen, or “eight-and-ten” as they say it here.

Ned is leaving in a few days, heading back to the Vale. He’s fostering with Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale. I’m told that this is a big deal, and I’m also told that it’s pretty common. I’ve heard grumbling about “southron ambitions” but I’m not sure what that means exactly. And in fact, I’ve heard more about Jon’s other ward than the Lord himself.

That would be Robert Baratheon, who has apparently become like a brother to Ned. I’ve heard this was a surprise to a lot of people, because Robert is basically the _opposite_ of Ned. While Ned is the kind of kid who would have straight As and run for class president, Robert is the kind that would have sex in the school bathroom or get drunk and crash his mom’s skycar into an office tower.

I won’t say which one I was. The Alliance would disavow it anyway; they want the perfect public image for their poster girl. But hold that thought, because it’s going to become important in a moment.

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to glean much about the other Baratheons- or possibly the Durrandons, a name that Walys mentioned only in passing but came up a few times. I believe Robert is heir to the Stormlands but I’m not entirely sure on that.

Benjen is four-and-ten, has blue eyes, and is thin as a stick. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, and nobody seemed to talk about him much. I did try to observe him when I could, though. He seems to like teasing his brothers. A normal kid, I think, though for all I know he could be skinning squirrels for fun in his spare time. I’m going to try to get to know him a bit better if I can.

That leaves Lyanna. I think she’s almost exactly a year older than Benjen but I’m not 100% sure on this. She took the spot beside me, practically bowling over Benjen in the process and getting what probably would have been a hell of a scolding if the Starks weren’t so concerned about appearances in front of their guest. Every time I was free and some of the times I wasn’t, she bombarded me with questions.

Are you a warrior? Yes, or the closest equivalent thereof. Is that your sword? Yes. Where did you get it? It was a gift from a friend. Can you use it? Kinda, swords are mostly obsolete where I’m from. Are you a knight? Not really but technically yes. Who are you sworn to? It’s complicated (it really is, on account of being both a Council Spectre and an active-duty Navy officer). Did you ever fight in a battle? Yes. Did you ever kill anyone? Also yes, and that’s not something you should aspire to.

About three quarters of the way through the dinner, Ned let slip that Lyanna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. Maybe I’d built up enough trust already, or maybe it was the wine- legal drinking age doesn’t seem to be a thing here- but she made it _abundantly_ clear that she was _not_ cool with this whole marriage thing.

And, if I’m not mistaken, she’s currently trying to listen in with her ear against my door.

* * *

“Save log. Pause music,” Shepard commanded. She briefly glanced at her omni-tool before turning to the door. “I know you’re there. You can come in.”

The wooden door creaked open, and the slim, brown-haired girl stepped into the room. She paused at the threshold, gathering her courage, and then took a seat in a chair across from the bad where Shepard sat.

“So…”

“I heard the music,” Lyanna evaded. “It didn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard before.”

“_My Fall Will Be For You_. It’s from an Asari opera, but apparently it’s based on a Finnish folk song- a song from my world.”

“I only recognize the drums. The other instruments, they don’t sound like lutes or harps or flutes. And the singer, she has a strange voice.”

“It’s because they’re asari, not human. Not everyone in the galaxy look like you or me, although the asari are probably the closest. Most of the instruments in this song are from Earth, but not all of them. The whole concept of the opera is that each song is based on a different culture from a different place in the galaxy. Different languages, different musical style.” She shrugged, a small smile on her lips. “I’m not an expert on music, or into this sort of thing. Garrus got me this album as a joke.”

A look of bemusement crossed the girl’s face. “What’s an opera? What’s an album?”

“An opera is a kind of musical play, I guess. It’s considered high culture, but I’m not really a high culture sort of person. An album is just a collection of songs.”

“Where was the music coming from? You didn’t bring a band with you.”

She waved a hand over her omni-tool, bringing up its holographic interface. “In here.”

“How?” Lyanna asked, both bedazzled and bewildered.

Shepard paused a moment, trying to figure out the best way to explain it. “Every spacefaring race has gone through an information revolution. Ours was about two hundred years ago. We can store text, music, images, almost anything as data. It can be copied, moved, stored away and brought up at will. It’s not limitless, but I could fit a hundred years of literature in the palm of my hand.”

“How could you read a book that small?”

“It’s displayed bigger. Um…” She tapped gloved fingers against an armored wrist. “I’m a soldier, Lyanna, not a scientist or a diplomat. I’m not going to sugarcoat it- I was trained to kill. I want to make peace here, but I am _not_ the sort of person that should be initiating first contact.”

“Surely you aren’t the worst,” Lyanna argued. She added, “My father likes you. I can tell.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Shepard replied earnestly. “Hopefully, my people will come soon enough. I’ll be on my way, and they’ll have the right people who’ll get everything sorted out.”

“Was all you said true? Do they really let girls swing swords and wear armor and fight wars where you come from?”

“Not swinging swords so much- though some people do that for fun. My mom taught me to shoot. Started me off with her M-96 Mattock.” She smiled at the memory. “Just about the worst gun you could find for a twelve-year-old girl. The kick almost ripped my arm out of its socket.”

“What’s a gun?”

It took her a moment to come up with an explanation that didn’t include the word _gun_. “It’s like… it’s like a crossbow, but much more advanced.”

“And they don’t force you to sing and dance and do needlework and marry who they want?”

“There are bad parents everywhere, but I was free to choose my own path,” she answered as diplomatically as possible. She knew where this was going, and tried to deflect it. “It just _happened_ to be down the path my mom went, and where her mom had went.”

“I don’t want to marry Robert,” Lyanna blurted out. “I know I shouldn’t be saying that, especially to the lady from the sky who I just met today…”

_But you’ll share your problems with me anyway. You and the whole fucking galaxy_, she thought, but didn’t voice it. Truth be told, she felt for the girl, but breaking up a royal marriage on her first day was taking it a little far, even for her.

Maybe Wrex would do it, or Jack.

“I don’t know your laws,” she answered slowly. “I don’t know your customs, your traditions. But if there’s a way to break out of it, that’s where you should look. And if you can’t, find a way to delay it, buy time to find another way.”

The girl looked disappointed. “I thought your advice would be more exciting.”

“I like it a lot better when everyone walks in with guns drawn but walks away thinking they got what they wanted, _without_ a firefight in between,” Shepard explained, before continuing. “That being said, you might have to bend the rules, even break them. That’s the difference between the good and the great. Knowing when to work within the system, when to do and end-run, and when to kick in the door.”

Lyanna nodded slowly, maybe taking it in and maybe not.

“Tell you what. If I’m still here tomorrow, we’ll see what we can do,” she said with a reassuring smile.

“Will you still be here?”

Shepard glanced out the window, past the towers of Winterfell to the stars beyond. Toward the Normandy, wherever she was, toward Earth and Omega and the Citadel and the billions of souls inhabiting the galaxy. They’d be looking for her, but space was unfathomably big. “For better or for worse, I think I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Bushmaster pistol is my own creation. It's similar to the Sidewinder in Mass Effect Andromeda. In fact, call it the pistol the Sidewinder was based on.
> 
> Why? Because futuristic six-shooter, that's why!


End file.
